


Nugs Are Not Rabbits

by Phelidae



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Winter Palace, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phelidae/pseuds/Phelidae
Summary: "Later, after secrets are revealed, strings are pulled, and both Cassandra and Lavellan have made enough disgusted noises to last a lifetime, they all sit around a fire in the woods a few hours away from the Winter Palace. An offer from Empress Celene to stay overnight as honored guests had been politely but quite firmly turned down by Lavellan.They had set out as soon as the excitement had died down and made camp in a small clearing. The majority of the group had promptly pitched their tents and gone to sleep, but a portion of them remain awake, passing around a bottle of some terrible Ferelden ale that Iron Bull had wordlessly procured from sources better left unknown. The air that hangs around them is heavy with something close to mourning.It has been an all around unpleasant night."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a very fun 3am orange juice-fueled writing binge in the middle of midterms. Any and all mistakes are my own, I shouldn’t even be here, but if anything is stabbing you in the eye please feel free to let me know and I’ll get it sorted. I have to sink back into the abyss now.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://daesgam.tumblr.com), I’m lonely and talkative and don’t follow enough people. 
> 
> I've borrowed two or three lines from the game and tweaked them a bit for this piece.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Dorian navigates the regal hallways with wine glass in hand, observing the paintings and people with a careful eye. They’re meant to be looking for a murderer at a ball full of masked attendees. He’s fairly certain he’s read this exact story before, and he doesn’t remember it ending very well for anyone involved.

He’s seen a few of their own people scattered about. Other than Leliana and Josephine they’re all horribly out of place in their formal clothing and freshly scrubbed skin. Sera had disappeared altogether shortly after arriving, which is probably for the best. Solas is in some corner looking entirely too pleased for Dorian’s liking, and Cassandra is doing her best impression of a wooden beam near the staircase. 

Inquisitor Lavellan has been in and out of every other room all night. Dorian’s exhausted just from watching him socialize, and he heads toward the gardens for some fresh air. Whether or not it happens to be the last direction he saw the elf headed is neither here nor there. 

He spots Cole before he sees anyone else, something he’s sure means that Cole _wants_ Dorian to find him, so he heads over to him. He’s perched on the base of a statue with his legs dangling and looking even smaller than usual without his hat.

It starts before Dorian can even offer a proper greeting.

“Eyes pressing, prodding. Boots too tight. Masks not faces. Why don't I get a mask? I do. This is my mask. You don't know, none of you know.” 

“Is that-”

“Monsters, all of them. _Shemlen_. So many eyes looking. I can feel them on my skin, clawing.” 

The Inquisitor can be seen just past a group of three women, hands folded behind his back in the pose he frequently assumes. Dorian is too far away to read his expression, not that it would help much with somebody so unflappably placid, but perhaps the line of his shoulders does look a touch more severe than usual. No surprise there, considering.

“Is that from now?” Dorian asks. It's a question he's learned to ask when Cole spouts off one of his excerpts of other's personal thoughts. He's been trying to get Cole to start dating them, but no such luck as of yet.

“Yes. He would like to leave.” His voice is clear and matter of fact. Dorian resists scoffing at the words.

“I suspect he ‘would like to leave’ much like a nug ‘would like to leave’ a wyvern’s lair,” Dorian says into his glass.

A distant exclamation of ‘Inquisitor Lavellan’ can be heard from across the way and Dorian watches Riveth quickly turn to answer the summons. He converses with the small group that has gathered until Josephine appears at his side to gently tug him away. Presumably to meet more people, make more connections. Riveth gives his best Inquisitor's smile and follows Josephine. Dorian hates that smile. It’s charming and genially and not at all Riveth. 

Dorian wishes he could help, wishes he could tell the whole Orlesian court where they could firmly place their ‘knife-eared savage’ remarks. Honestly, they had barely stepped through the gates before the onslaught had begun. The fact that Riveth hadn't so much as flinched at the words spoke volumes on a multitude of subjects. 

He takes another sip of wine and feels very much at home as he stews in his own uselessness. Diplomatic necessity. _Fasta vass_.

“What about you, Cole?” Dorian begins, slightly changing the subject even as he watches Riveth disappear back inside the palace. “You’ve been getting quite a few unkind stares yourself. You holding up?” 

“I don't mind what people think of me,” Cole says, pale eyes flickering around the courtyard so rapidly that Dorian has to wonder if he manages to actually see anything. “It’s really just that they're thinking about me at all that I don’t like.”

“Well, there's something we can agree on,” Dorian says just before taking a long drink of wine. “On a somewhat related note, I have a question for you.” 

“Yes. A trapdoor. She betrayed him, but he was wrong too. Too much hurt from everyone, he wanted to be her angel. Ghosts can’t be angels.”

Dorian opens his mouth to respond - with what he isn’t sure - but when he glances over Cole is gone. Typical.

oOoOo

Dorian is on his second attempt at having a final glass of wine when Riveth reappears. He slips out through the doors into the open air and his gaze quickly falls to Dorian from across the garden. Dorian tips his head in acknowledgement, and Riveth begins to cross toward him. He looks absurd. Fine clothes in garish colors that clash harshly with his features. An elf in a human suit.

Ill-fitting armor sometimes does more harm than good.

“Good evening, Inquisitor, I trust the Orlesian people are treating you well?”

“Oh certainly. I’ve only been asked twice to refill somebody’s drink.” His voice is low, the corners of his eyes pinched tight. Dorian feels his eyebrows rise at the words.

“Have you really?” 

“No.” A small smirk fights to curve the corner of Riveth’s mouth. “No, unfortunately everyone know’s exactly who I am.” There’s a thread of a dry humor in his voice, but its presence is tremulous and halfhearted at best. 

The elf’s shoulders are hunched as if expecting a blow, and every so often he reaches up to tug lightly at the collar of his red jacket. Jittery is not a word that has ever suited the Inquisitor, but here he is looking approximately one more handshake away from bolting. Dorian’s chest gives a funny pull of sympathy and regret in the presence of Riveth’s misery. For a moment he struggles for the correct way to continue. 

Discussing the matters of Riveth’s race make Dorian feel as if he is treading across the thinnest of ice. After their nasty spat on the subject back in Haven, Dorian has simply avoided discussing the subject all together. It has nothing to do with wounded pride and everything to do with his reluctance to upset Riveth with his own ignorance again. Riveth has been remarkably patient with the flow of stilted questions that have come from Dorian’s resolve to be better. 

For the moment Dorian falls back on the lighthearted jest that the majority of their conversations are contrived of. Familiar, reliable. Familiar is what he feels Riveth could use right now.

“You’re rather out of your element, aren’t you?” he asks with a raised brow. Riveth blinks once.

“How very diplomatically phrased of you.”

“Your delicate use of sarcasm truly astounds,” Dorian says with a huff. He plucks a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant and holds it out to Riveth. “Have some wine, it’s slightly less offensive than what they’re stomping out in Ferelden.” 

Riveth accepts the glass and takes a drink, which is itself quite revealing of the extent of his current mental turmoil. Dorian can never get Riveth to drink wine, he _hates_ wine. It's one of the elf's features that Dorian struggles with the most. Ale of any sort on the other hand must be hidden on the highest shelf from Riveth at all times, unless one is prepared to be challenged to no less than three different types of duels in a single night. Iron Bull is notorious for being the one to find those high shelves for him, but he at least is always ready to accept the duels.

Riveth’s too professional to make any sort of outward expression of distaste, but Dorian suspects it’s a near thing. His fingers are too tight around the stem as he takes another drink, and Dorian continues the attempt to unwind his friend. 

“How _does_ the world’s most reserved elf end up in one of the most powerful political positions in southern Thedas?” Dorian asks. It’s something he has asked Riveth many times throughout their friendship. Riveth always has a different answer for him. It’s become a bit of a game between the two of them. _Familiar_.

“Evidently by not just allowing himself to have the skin razed from his bones and dying like everyone else with half a clue.” 

“How very grim.” 

“Indeed.” Riveth lets loose a small sigh, shoulders loosening ever so slightly, and shifts his stance to observe the garden. The movement puts him a few inches closer to Dorian’s side, and Dorian’s fingers thrum with the desire to reach out to him.

A few more guests trickle out into the cool air, any skin that can actually be seen beneath masks and clothing is flushed from dancing and drinking. 

“And how are you fairing, Dorian?”

“Dancing, politics, and the potential for murder? In all honesty I’m starting to feel a touch homesick.”

“Of course,” Riveth says with a silent breath of laughter. His face is slowly starting to fall back into its usual neutral expression, still somber and strained, but a little more familiar. “Though, as I understand it, mages are not a favorite among our friends here either.”

“This is true,” Dorian admits, setting his empty glass down and folding his arms across his chest. “However, my undesirable characteristics are much less written, if you will, across my face as yours seem to be.” 

Riveth surprises him with a graceless little snort of amusement. Delightful.

“And just a little less sticking out the sides of your head?” he asks, eyes twinkling with a teasing humor. Dorian crinkles his nose to camouflage a relieved smile.

“Just so.”

The sound of bells carries out to the garden, and a murmur of excitement rolls through the small crowd. Riveth’s shoulders once again make friendly with his ears. Dorian mentally curses the entirety of Orlais.

“I suppose that’s my signal.” There’s such heavy resignation in Riveth’s voice that Dorian is tempted to put an end to the suffering himself and forcibly drag the elf all the way back to Skyhold. He sounds like he’s about to walk to the gallows. Though, Dorian can't really blame him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dorian starts, keeping his tone playful. “I’m quite certain that nobody who is anybody would pass up the opportunity to be fashionably late. Don’t you agree?”

Riveth studies Dorian’s face for a short moment before he smiles one of his regrettably rare true smiles, just like the one that he had given Dorian when he learned of his intention to stay with the Inquisition. His eyes crinkle at the corners and the look in them tells Dorian that he knows exactly the game Dorian is playing, but he’s going to allow it. It makes Dorian’s chest warm in a way that second-rate wine could never accomplish, and he returns the wonderful smile with one of his own.

oOoOo

Later, after secrets are revealed, strings are pulled, and both Cassandra and Riveth have made enough disgusted noises to last a lifetime, they all sit around a fire in the woods a few hours away from the Winter Palace. An offer from Empress Celene to stay overnight as honored guests had been politely but quite firmly turned down by Riveth.

They had set out as soon as the excitement had died down and made camp in a small clearing. The majority of the group had promptly pitched their tents and gone to sleep, but a portion of them remain awake, passing around a bottle of some terrible Ferelden ale that Iron Bull had wordlessly procured from sources better left unknown. The air that hangs around them is heavy with something close to mourning. 

It has been an all around unpleasant night.

“Dirt and grass against my skin. It’s different, not quite like _my_ grass, but this is better. Much better.” Cole’s voice breaks the silence just enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire. Dorian glances over to him where he sits a few feet away. He’s staring into the flames thoughtfully, and then it clicks and Dorian looks over to Riveth, who in turn is staring hard at Cole with an unreadable expression. He has ditched the heavy red jacket and his legs are pulled to his chest, his bare feet pressed into the soft ground before him. 

It’s the most endearingly self-indulgent thing Dorian has seen him do.

“Lovely. The creature has more riddles for us, it seems,” Vivienne says from where she sits reading a book. She’s close enough to the fire to utilize its light, but decidedly separate from the rest of them. Dorian wonders why she doesn’t just take her book to her tent and cast her own source of light. 

“It isn't a riddle,” Cole says without missing a beat. “I can say what I mean without you understanding.” 

Dorian barely has a moment to register the unexpected quip before Iron Bull is erupting into a rumbling laugh, one that trickles around the fire and rather effectively shatters the tense mood. Varric claps Cole on the shoulder with a grin and Vivienne rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn’t react and, more tellingly, remains where she is. Riveth is fighting a losing battle with a smirk, long fingers curled loosely around the now empty bottle they had been sharing, but he remains as silent as ever.

“Orlais. What a bunch of fuckin’ levereters,” Bull says, his words still thick with laughter. There’s a quiet chorus of agreement.

“Did you see that one woman’s shoes?” Varric asks. “Maker, I don’t know how she was standing.”

“If the way she was leaning against the banister all evening was any indication, she couldn’t,” Vivienne murmurs without looking up from her reading. Another wave of laughter. 

“I stole a vase,” Sera blurts, evidently taking the campfire as a confessional, and they all turn to look at her. 

“What? An entire vase?” Dorian asks incredulously, eyes scanning over her as if he might suddenly find an ornate Orlesian vase sitting in the grass beside her.

“A little tiny one,” she says with a shrug. 

“Why?” Varric asks, openly amused. 

“Some crumb was bragging about somethin’ or other and it pissed me off.”

“So you enacted your revenge by stealing a very small piece of pottery that doesn’t belong to him?” Dorian clarifies. 

Sera nods and gives a pleased little snort of laughter. 

“I got called a rabbit,” Riveth says almost as suddenly as Sera had. The words give the group a pause, but he doesn’t actually sound upset about it. An uncertain silence begins to bubble, but Riveth continues before it can become uncomfortable. “Is that something people call elves here?”

“Yeah. Some even claim it’s polite,” Varric offers with disapproval in his voice. 

Riveth narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“I’ve never even seen a rabbit before,” Riveth says, glancing around the group curiously. “Is it an apt description?”

Dorian bites back a chuckle at the skepticism in the elf’s words. 

“You know,” Bull begins, sounding surprised. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen one myself before.”

“Me neither,” says Sera. 

“Nugs aplenty, no rabbits,” Dorian confirms, a little disturbed at the realization. 

“Elves do not look like rabbits,” Cole says sounding almost offended, though whether it’s on behalf of rabbits or elves is unclear. All eyes snap to him. Cole frowns and then the entire group is interrogating the poor boy on the wonders of the elusive rabbit.

oOoOo

The moon is high in the sky by the time Dorian makes the decision to retire for the evening, the light of it illuminating the woods in patches of silver just enough to keep him from catching his boot on a rogue root.

His pocket is a few coins lighter thanks to a few ill-advised bets placed with Bull, and he reminds himself once again to either accept alcohol or bets from Bull, never both at once.

A small whisper of sound catches his attention and he glances over to where the horses are tied.

Riveth had retired almost an hour ago, but there he is leaning against a tree and stroking the snout of his own horse, lips moving with words too quiet to hear from this distance. Dorian smiles to himself and goes to join him, intentionally scuffing his foot on a stone as he walks in an attempt to startle neither horse nor elf. 

Riveth looks up and nods in greeting. Dorian notices that he is still barefoot and this time he cannot hide his fond amusement. Riveth follows his gaze and gives a one-shouldered little shrug, not bothering to offer an explanation. 

“I don’t know how you stand it, Lavellan, it’s freezing out here,” Dorian says with a shake of his head and Riveth only rolls his eyes in response. Dorian slides up beside him and reaches out to run a hand over the horse's face as well, letting his fingers drag against Riveth's before he drops his hand back to his side. “Any particular reason you’re choosing to have a chat with your horse instead of sleeping?” 

“I can’t help but wonder if I made the right choice tonight,” Riveth says. He's still stroking the velvet soft fur between his horse’s nostrils, staring hard at his own hand. Dorian is a little taken aback at his uncharacteristic forthrightness. The evening cut Riveth deeper than Dorian realized.

“One might say there was no correct choice,” Dorian says. He keeps his voice quiet and serious. 

“One might,” Riveth agrees. “But one also might not have had to actually make that call themself.” 

Dorian tilts his head in acquiescence and Riveth goes on. 

“It’s rather difficult to remain unbiased in your decision on what’s best for a group of people that would very much prefer to see you shackled in servitude than daring to wear fine clothes, let alone guide a nation.” 

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks, searching Riveth's face.

“It’s a shame, really,” Riveth says by way of answer, slender fingers dragging lightly down the freckled nose of his mount one last time. “A shame that the ballroom was overflowing with knife-tongued Orlesian savages, for I do so love to dance.” He gives Dorian a very small smile, but sadness pulls it away before it can take root. 

Dorian is quite certain that his heart is lying shattered at his feet, but he can’t make himself look away from Riveth long enough to check.

He’s absolutely magnificent in the moonlight. Slices of silver slide over him, contrasting with tan skin, catching on the tattoos that cross his face. His hair is so dark that it nearly swallows up the light entirely, only shining with the remnants of it. His eyes--Maker, his eyes. 

“You dance?” Dorian asks, voice quiet.

“I have danced,” Riveth responds with another shrug, his tone overly disinterested. 

"You never told me."

"There hasn't really been an occasion for dancing since somebody blew a hole in the sky."

"Do all elves like to dance, or is it just--"

" _Dorian_ ," Riveth interrupts, lips pursed in exasperation. 

Dorian grins and raises a hand in the small space between them. 

“Dance with me?”

“Oh good, you do know how to take a hint,” Riveth says with a wry smile. “I was truly beginning to wonder.”

“You wound me,” Dorian says as Riveth’s hand slides into his own. He has to make a conscious effort to keep his heart inside his chest. “What’s that quaint expression about rushing a good thing?”

“Haven’t a clue, sounds dull.” 

Dorian laughs even as Riveth draws closer, arms looping around Dorian’s waist until their chests are pressed close. His chin tilts up so that he can keep eye contact with Dorian, lips parted just enough to allow soft breaths to trail over Dorian’s lips. 

Dorian’s tongue presses at the back of his teeth in an attempt to chase the sensation. His eyelids are heavy, and for a moment the two of them simply stand there sharing breath, looking. 

“My dear, this isn’t dancing,” Dorian whispers, eyes falling to the mouth so very close to his own.

“Mm,” Riveth hums in agreement with a slow blink. “I’ve just remembered I don’t know a single human dance.”

“Oh, what a shame.” 

Dorian has barely finished the sentence before he is cutting himself off to lean down and press his lips to Riveth’s, his hands lifting to grip at the elf’s narrow hips. Riveth makes an impossibly small noise and leans in closer, lips yielding underneath his. 

His mouth is soft and warm and so unlike the barbed words that often come from it, and Dorian hums with delight as his hands move to brush through the black hair he has spent so many hours of his life thinking about. It’s somehow softer than he imagined. 

Riveth gives Dorian’s lower lip a sharp drag of teeth before pulling away just enough to speak. 

“Dorian Pavus, don’t you _dare_ give me a single reason to like Orlais,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across the line of Dorian’s jaw. 

Dorian tilts his head back and sighs, staring unseeingly up at the stars as Riveth’s mouth presses to the shell of his ear.

“Actually, I was planning on giving you multiple reasons to like this particular patch of trees in Orlais,” he says. 

“Arrogant.” It’s barely more than an exhale next to his ear.

“That implies the inability to provide supporting evidence,” Dorian rebuts. 

He feels the press of teeth against his neck as Riveth grins before stepping back and grabbing Dorian’s hand. He gives a soft tug as he begins to back away in the direction of his tent. 

“Come on then, give me multiple reasons to like this particular patch of trees,” he says. 

Dorian follows, hypnotized by those eyes and that mouth and those words.

“Oh, _amatus_ , you are going to _love_ these trees.”

**Author's Note:**

> Where are the rabbits?


End file.
